Bluewood Mountain

[Gum do Mugu]

Drizzle trickled down little panes of glass; that was the only window in Constable Dodo’s five-by-five office. Bluewood Mountain’s police chief creaked back in his well-worn chair and wheezed a mumble out of his tight, old lungs. “It sure does rain a lot here,” he said to the smile of his wet and broken reflection, “and I love it…”

Some young’uns ran by, splashing almighty in the puddles; and the Constable watched with a wrinkle in his dimples. To the town’s kids—they blew raspberries as they sped by—Dodo seemed as old as the world itself. In truth, his identity card placed his date of birth as 53 years ago.

The children’s vibrancy brought the old timer’s past to the surface, he was overcome by thoughts of love and life (fond and fraught alike). “When did Yorman make me the constable? Has it been...”

á—·Oá‘­ á—·Oá‘­ á—·Oá‘­

A knock at the door interrupted Consntable Dodo’s reflection. “Oh, yes,” he said, struggling to move his chair between his desk and his files in the tiny room. “Come in, of course—it’s unlocked,” he wheezed.

Lo and behold, what are the chances… “Dodo, my old friend, hello,” they were the words of Yorman. And Yorman Wilverson was the mayor of Bluewood Mountain. “Don’t get up,” insisted the mayor when he saw his friend’s belly stuck between a rock and a hard place. “I don’t want you to suffer this terrible news on your feet. Like I had to.”

Dodo took on a little air, bracing himself. He placed his pale digits on the edge of his desk and clenched his lips. Dodo stared at the mayor hopefully. Yorman was still standing in the doorway. Heck, the room was so small, he had to stand in the doorway.

“It’s the kids,” the mayor chanced ruefully.

“I just saw the kids running by!” Dodo snapped back.

“No Constable,” the mayor continued. “It’s,” he hesitated, “the older kids.”

It was then that the constable understood. Bluewood Mountain had a way of tangling teenagers in terrible troubles. In a flash of anger, Dodo shoved his chair back into the cobwebbed brick behind him and dragged his gut free of his desk.

“YORM YOU OLD BASTARD DON’T CALL ME CONSTABLE.”

Yorman steadied his friend with a firm grip. “There’s been a murder,” he conceded.

“Who?” the constable asked, lip quivering and eyes stout ahead of the tears.

The mayor sniffed, squared his shoulders and said, “Autumn… young Autumn Jack. Arteur’s little girl.”